


Blood and Air

by tabaqui



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the original art prompt: <i>After almost 30 years of silence the gargoyles of the old abandoned church started screaming at night again. The psychic Missouri Mosley calls the Winchester brothers for help, 'cause she knows that every time the gargoyles scream, someone has a terrible supernatural death.</i>   Set somewhere near the end of season four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Air

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [spn_reversebang challenge](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/). Art prompt and fic art by [Satavaisa](http://satavaisa.livejournal.com/20466.html). Originally posted in November of 2010.

Lyrics are _Mob Rules_ by Black Sabbath.

 

 

Moonlight lay like snow across the stone arches of the cathedral; a flying buttress like a slope of blue-white ice, shadows black as tar. The sky above was dense, thick as cream with racing clouds, pewter blue with cold. Far away was the pinprick, stuttering red of the Monument's warning light, like a demon's malevolent stare. The wind was strong and gusty, sending snowflakes rushing up – around – down again, frozen white flecks that collected in the arabesques of carved stone.

Shapes seemed to writhe in the blackness, charcoal on ink, as the clouds furled across the moon. Light and dark, light and dark, and then a face – a twisted caricature of a face – loomed out of the shadows. Its open, thick-lipped mouth worked, stretching and pursing and stretching wider as the wind suddenly blew true, driving snow in furious, slanting sheets.

Air like liquid ice flowed through the hollow stone throat of the thing, rushing, roaring – _screaming_. The scream echoed across the snow-shrouded landscape, rattling winter blackened trees and causing a ragged handful of pigeons to erupt, clattering, from some hidey hole. The scream fell and rose with the wind, shrill as a siren's wail, louder, _louder_ -

Missouri Moseley jerked awake with a hard, sharp gasp, eyes wide and fingers clenching tight on the edge of the covers. It was starting all over again.

 

In the dank, concrete alley-space off Wisconsin Avenue, Avery Jefferson shuffled across frozen ruts of snow, his shoes inside their layers of rags and plastic bags treacherous on the ice. The lights of Café Deluxe shone softly from a high window – kitchen, probably – and Avery could just see the sloping top of the big, blue Dumpster that sat under the overhang of the building. There was a tub there, one of those kinds the busboy would pile dishes in, and it was steaming ever so slightly.

Avery felt himself grinning behind his beard, and he rubbed stiff, chilblained hands together. That little girl, the pretty one with the curly hair – she always made sure the last of the 'garbage' was wrapped up in foil and piled in a dish tub. Made sure it was up off the street and out of the dirt, ready and waiting for anyone who happened to come by.

Tonight, it looked like Avery was the first one to come along, and he dug down into a pocket and found a ratty, green plastic bag with bright white handles. In this weather, he could take as much as the bag could hold and it wouldn't go rancid on him, not for days. He hoped there was some of that grilled meatloaf, and the lamb. Those were his favorites. Not like the 'sparagus; that girl was a little heavy-handed with the vegetables, but they made good filler.

Avery unfolded his bag and stepped carefully up onto a snow-dusted pile of flattened boxes. As he leaned against the Dumpster, a breeze sprang up, rushing down the alley. It seemed to push at Avery – to pluck at his beard and the dense bundle of dreads sticking out from under his hat. It swirled around his ankles, rushing up his pant-legs and shirt sleeves and Avery cursed softly, shoving still-warm bundles of food into his bag.

The wind seemed to move faster – push harder – and it was making a noise now. Not just the dry rush of air passing over concrete and steel, but something else, something shrill – something like a scream and Avery's feet slipped as the wind dragged at him, howling.

"God damn – God damn – hey!" Avery slipped again, bag flapping, and a foil package sailed away into the snow. And then another and another as he grabbed for the dish tray, the Dumpster edge – anything. The wind tore at him – pushed and pulled and spun him until he fell, shouting – his hand and wrist slammed against the edge of the Dumpster as the snow whirled in, choking him, blinding him. He hit the ground hard, ridges of melted and re-frozen snow like rods across his back. His bag was gone, the foil packages lost, and Avery stared straight up into a whirling, black-and-white vortex of snow and wind and night sky.

And then the wind gathered itself and rushed straight down, invisible battering ram, and the snow turned red.

 

Missouri lay still, trying to breathe long and deep – trying to still the painful gallop of her heart. She blinked into the chill gloom of her bedroom, taking comfort in the familiar shapes around her: the sag of her bathrobe across the arm of her old rocker; the little glints of reflected light from the mirror, her earrings; the collection of tubs and tubes on the cluttered surface of her vanity.

When she could breathe without gasping, and her hands weren't shaking so hard, she sat up. She pushed back flannel and quilts, fingertips feeling time stitched into worn cotton. She swung her legs out of the bedclothes, flinching at the chill air, and shuffled her feet into her slippers. The little heater in the bathroom wall kicked on with a faint whirr and Missouri stared at her sleep-creased face in the mirror for a moment before shaking her head – shaking off the dream.

"Got a lot of work to do. No use fretting over it," she muttered. Coffee and biscuits and eggs, and then she would see. Call up the Winchesters, and get the ball rolling.

She forced herself to wait until the sun came up, at least – until it wasn't so early that she'd get cussed at instead of listened to. Still too early, apparently, because the voice on the other end of the phone was sleep-thick and querulous.

"Jesus, what the _fuck_ , I just got to sleep!"

"Don't take the Lord's name, boy."

There was a long pause and then a rattling sort of groan. "Missouri?"

"Good morning to you, too, Dean Winchester."

"Good – oh, for – _Sam_ , it's for you."

There was a sort of rustle and thump and then Sam's voice, dazed and confused.

"It's _your_ phone, Dean, they want you –"

"They really don't, shut _up_ , sleepin'...."

"Do you really want me?" Sam's voice sounded as rough as Dean's, and Missouri winced a little, feeling bad. But not that bad.

"Sam, this is going to take a lot less time if you'll just hush and listen to me."

"Uh, Missouri?"

"Lord help me," Missouri muttered, shaking her head. "Do you have a pencil and paper?"

"I, uh – I think...ow, _shit_...." There was another thump and distantly, Missouri could hear Dean's voice again, ' _Turn off the damn light!_ ' She took a sip of her coffee and waited. After another moment, Sam was back, sounding a little breathless. "Yeah, okay, I got it."

"Your head okay, boy?"

"It's – fine, how did...? Never mind. Just, uh – go ahead?"

"You boys need to head to Washington. The capital. To the National Cathedral. People are going to be dying there – probably a couple already have. You boys have to stop it."

"Washington.... _Going_ to be dying? You mean – nobody's dead yet?"

Missouri cocked her head, staring without really seeing at the blues and greens of her kitchen curtains. "I can't be sure. It feels like...yes. But I _do_ know death is coming, Sam. Death is awake at the cathedral, and we have to stop it."

"What do you mean, death – uh, _we_? Missouri, we're kind of in the middle of something –"

"And it can wait for a little. You go on back to sleep now, Sam. I'll see you in Washington in a couple days." Missouri took the phone away from her ear, ignoring Sam's voice as it grew more distant.

"Meet you? Missouri.... _Missouri_?" She clicked the phone off and set it on the table – picked up her spoon and idly stirred her cooling coffee. No, she couldn't be _sure_ that anyone had died – that wasn't clear to her. But she felt that someone had. The dream had been too sharp – too terrifying. Too much like it had been, all those years ago. Fifteen had died – fifteen innocent lives snuffed out, their horror and pain reverberating through the aether. She'd only been twelve then, shivering under the quilts at Nana's house, listening to the walls creak in psychic agony as, miles away, the stone monsters had come to life and the very air had screamed. It would be different, this time.

 

Washington in January was fucking cold, and Dean stood stamping his feet, scowling, watching as Sam perused the aisles of the Shell station, loading up on essential supplies. Like HoHos and teriyaki jerky. The pump dinged and Dean reached down and eased the nozzle free – hung it up and looked with a wince at the total.

"Jesus. Could _make_ gas for less." The wind gusted, scented with exhaust and the tin-salt of snow, the air faintly blue, that just-before-dawn twilight that made it hard to see the details. That made the shadows a little more menacing. Dean rubbed his hands together and climbed back inside the car, cranking the heat. He pulled away from the pump and sat, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, while Sam paid and came out, stepping carefully across the slushy sidewalk. He slid into his place in the car and Dean backed and turned and drove out of the parking lot, heading for the highway. He didn't know D.C. and didn't want to drive around on empty, hungry and pissed off. Though the pissed off part was a given, considering.

"So she didn't say _anything_ else?"

" _Dean_." Sam looked up from the bag in his lap, his face set in that 'I will kill you' look of sheer, little-brother annoyance. "I told you a hundred times already. Just – give it a rest."

"We've kind of got bigger fish to fry here, Sam. Does the Apocalypse ring a bell?" Dean changed lanes and pressed the accelerator down, wondering if there were any speed traps. D.C. itself was only about an hour away – maybe they saved all their policing for Presidential threats. The thought made him relax a fraction and he held out his right hand. "Hit me."

"Cake or jerky?"

"That's 'cake or death'."

"Huh?"

Dean snorted softly. "Gimme some jerky, bitch."

"You're the jerky," Sam muttered, and tossed a pack of dried meat at Dean's face.

Dean snatched it out of the air and tore it open with his teeth. Reached down and spun the dial on the stereo, grinning at Sam's wince as the voice of Ronnie James Dio screamed out, pure and perfect.

 

_Close the city and tell the people that something's coming to call  
Death and darkness are rushing forward to take a bite from the wall, oh...._

 

The address that Missouri had given them was just off Florida Avenue, a narrow street called 12th Place Northwest. It was densely lined with brick row houses, all about ten feet across but at least three stories high, some painted flat tans and whites, others standing out in bold purple or green. The house at 2215 was a bright blue, with a lime-yellow door; the winter-thinned limbs of some overgrown tree partially obscuring it. Most of the street was blessedly empty, and Dean eased the car into a spot across the street with a little sigh. The morning commute traffic had _sucked_.

"That it?" he asked, and Sam peered through the steam on his window and sighed, too.

"Yeah, that's it."

"Thank God." Dean turned the engine off and got out, flinching a little at the bite of freezing air. A brisk wind was blowing down the street, funneled by the tall houses, and he grabbed his jacket off the seat and pulled it on, huddling down into the warm canvas and quilting. Across from him, Sam was stretching and bending, working out the kinks in his back, and Dean took a moment to do the same, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. Then they crossed the street, Dean reaching through the bars of the security door to knock, expecting Missouri to drag open the door and scowl at him for being late.

He _wasn't_ expecting someone who looked like a cross between Halle Berry and Queen Latifah - tall, a little heavy in that good, curvy way, and drop-dead gorgeous. Dean felt himself grin on pure, knee-jerk instinct. "Hey, hi. I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam – we're friends of Missouri's?"

The woman tipped her chin up and shouted. "Auntie Mo!" She gave Dean and Sam the once-over, her finely arched brows going up a little. "You're sure not what I was expecting."

"No? Well, I hope you're pleasantly surprised," Dean said, and she snorted softly. But her mouth was curling up in a little smile and Dean took a second, longer look at her. She had on furry, calf-high boots under a trim skirt and a padded leather jacket on over what looked like silk and linen. A bag much like Sam's, only cut from some kind of butter-soft leather, the stitching tiny and perfect. She tipped her head back and yelled again. "Auntie Mo, your _friends_ are here!" She pulled an alarmingly shiny phone from a side-pocket of her bag and tapped on it a few times with a manicured finger. "As nice as this is, gentlemen – I'm late. I really need to get a move on."

"You – uh – work at the White House?" Dean asked, as the woman dug around into her shoulder bag again and pulled out a pair of fluffy, dark purple earmuffs that she settled carefully onto her head. She laughed, shaking her head.

"No, I'm a registrar at the Air and Space Museum," she said and stepped outside, pulling the door nearly to behind her. "You'll understand if I don't invite you in?"

"Yeah, sure, that's fine. Space – I love space. The moon, you know –" Behind him, Sam made a sort of groaning, snorting noise that Dean totally ignored.

"Then I suggest you come by for the tour some time, Dean. Have a nice visit with my Auntie." She gave Dean a little wink and then turned on her heel and strode away. The skirt really did fit her very nicely.

"Dean Winchester, get your eyes back in your head and _off_ my niece!" Missouri stood scowling in the doorway, resplendent in a striped cardigan and fluffy orange slippers. Dean choked a little. "Get yourselves in here before you freeze to death," she added, turning and padding away into the dim interior. Sam bumped Dean's shoulder with his own, and they climbed the single step into the house and shut the door.

 

"Are you saying the gargoyles actually come to life? Like – crawl around?" Sam asked, and Missouri frowned over her coffee, shaking her head.

"No, I don't believe they do. They seem to – they seem to move, and scream. But I think stone creatures getting up and waltzing around would have been noticed by _somebody_."

"You'd think," Dean said. He shifted in his position against the kitchen counter, taking a mouthful of his own coffee and swallowing it, his expression thoughtful. "Do you think –?"

"Hey, found something," Sam said, and Dean pushed off from the counter to walk over to Sam, who straightened back from the kitchen table and turned his laptop, angling the screen. "A homeless man was killed last night – multiple broken bones and internal injuries, but he wasn't hit by a car or anything. It's like he was –"

"Crushed," Missouri said, her gaze distant – troubled – and Sam nodded.

"Yeah. Have to check out the body for sure, see the coroner's report, but...yeah."

"So it's started," Missouri said softly, and Dean settled in the chair next to her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"Are you sure you don't know what it is? I mean, you said you went looking, the last time. You didn't find anything?"

"I did go looking. Snuck away from Nana and took the bus, all on my own. And did she whale me when I got back, oh my, did she...." Missouri put her cup down and tugged her cardigan tighter around herself, her gaze fixed sightlessly on the table-top. "Walked right inside the cathedral, under all those eyes...all those watchers. Made my blood run cold. There was something – someone – watching me. Trying to – talk to me." Missouri glanced up at Sam and Dean, shrugging a little.

"I wasn't nearly so practiced then – was just coming into my gifts, really. I wasn't sure what was there, but it was cold...so very cold. Cold and angry. It screamed at me – the air itself seemed to be alive with voices, screaming and wailing...like the very mount of Babylon.... I ran, Dean. I turned and ran and never went back and that's why...."

She stopped, and Sam shot a look over at Dean – reached out a hand toward Missouri, not quite touching, just letting his fingers rest on the scrubbed pine of the table top.

"That's why you want to stop it, this time? That's why you want to be here."

"That's exactly why," Missouri sighed. She reached out and patted Sam's hand – froze for a moment, her eyes going wide, and then she flung herself back in her chair a little, gasping. " _What_ \- oh my Lord, boy, oh my Lord, what are you – what –"

"Missouri? What –"

" _Dean_ ," a voice said, gravel-rough and impatient, and all three looked up in startlement at Castiel, who stood in the corner of the kitchen like a wind-ruffled owl, wide-eyed and daylight-grumpy.

"How did you get in here? Who – oh Jesus, oh Lord, have mercy –" Missouri babbled, and then she slumped right over in a dead faint. Dean managed to catch her halfway down and then Sam was there, and they eased Missouri down to the floor, her bulky shoulders on Dean's thighs, her head in the crook of his arm. Sam went for a glass of water and Dean glared at the angel who stood staring back, head tipped over in that way that meant he was clueless as to what had just happened.

"You really need to learn to knock," Dean snapped.

 

Missouri woke with a little start, the twisted faces of gargoyles and grotesques leering at her from the darkness behind her eyelids. She was on the couch in the living room, her head propped with a pillow, her feet covered with one of Nana's afghans. And that man – no, _not_ a man, not a man at all.....

"What are you?" Missouri said, quiet, and the man tipped his head to her.

"I'm an angel of the Lord."

In the mellow-gold light of mid-morning, he was a thinnish, ruffled-looking man in a rumpled suit and a tan overcoat that had seen better days. In her _sight_.... He was light, sheer planes and shifting arcs, a face like a burning sun and eyes – so many eyes.... Wings that arched, furled and curving, through the ceiling and the walls of the house, and his voice....

"Can you...turn it down a little?" she asked, sitting up slowly, dragging the afghan off her feet and crumpling it in her lap. The angel just looked at her.

"She means your angel-ness or whatever," Dean said, slouching around the jamb of the doorway between living room and kitchen. "You're probably kind of bright."

"Oh," the angel said, and his – otherness – was abruptly dimmed and diminished, until it was nothing more than a sort of soft fuzz of shifting, opalescent light. Missouri felt faintly disappointed, but mostly relieved. "I'm sorry."

"Lord, it's all right. You are what you are." Missouri sent a _look_ Dean's way and was gratified to see him hunch a little. "What in the world are you doing, boy, mixed up with an angel?"

"Hey, they came to _me_ , Missouri. If it was up to me –"

"Dean is very important to us. My Father ordered that he be pulled from hell –" the angel said, and Missouri felt the blood drain from her face.

"Cas –"

" _Hell_? Dean Winchester, what in the world –"

"We really don't have time for this." The angel – Cas – ' _Cas? What kind of a name is Cas?_ ' Missouri thought wildly – looked impatient and intense, a little frightening, and Missouri wobbled to her feet, wanting to be standing in case.... Well, in case.

"This is not one of the seals, Dean. You and Sam need to concentrate on –"

"We need to help our friend," Sam said, coming down the stairs, dull rumble of the plumbing settling on the floor above him.

"She needs our help, Cas. It's what we _do_." Dean was straight-backed in the face of the angel's searing, blue gaze and Missouri felt her respect for the boy edge upward. He wasn't afraid – or at least, not much afraid. And willing to stand up for a woman who'd never done much for him but give him bad news. Him and his daddy.

"That's enough. I don't want to hear any more from any of you. I need a cup of coffee and you boys –" Missouri trained her glare on Sam, Dean, and Castiel in turn, and was gratified to see the angel blink. "I want to know what's going on."

 

Missouri was silent for so long after, Dean thought maybe she wasn't going to say anything at all. He glanced over at Sam and then Cas, but they were all waiting, watching the woman in the fuzzy slippers and weird sweater as if she had all the answers. Maybe she _did_. For a moment, Dean felt a tiny little twist of anticipation. _Maybe...._

And then Missouri sighed, and took a sip from her cup and made a little face. She got up slowly and walked to the sink, pouring out the dregs of her coffee and rinsing the cup – propping it in a bright red dish drainer. Then she turned around and looked at them all.

"You boys...." She shook her head once, and then straightened, tugging her sweater down a little. "The Lord is mighty, boys, and His will is strong. His love is eternal. In the end, you are _all_ His children. All."

Dean shook his head. Typical. "I've only got one Father, and it's not the big jerkoff in the sky," Dean muttered. He stood up abruptly, glancing at the clock over the doorway. "We're wasting time. We need to get to the cathedral and check it out, do some research. I know," he added, as Castiel opened his mouth, looking annoyed.

"It's not a seal, but it's important, Cas. It's our job. We can't just ignore people dying."

Castiel's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and then he nodded. "I know you can't, Dean. I'm needed elsewhere." And he was gone, _shush_ of his wings loud in the quiet house, and Missouri made a little huffing sound.

"Does he always do that?"

"As often as possible," Sam muttered. He stood up and stretched just a little. "Dean's right, though – we need to go take a look at the cathedral and see if we can find anything. Maybe we can figure this out before the next attack."

"Go on, then," Missouri said. She squared her shoulders, staring hard at Sam, and Dean felt himself bristling a little. "We need to talk, you and me." Her look promised more than _talk_ , and Dean had a sudden, irrational desire to tackle Sam to the floor and hold him still while Missouri did her thing.

"Uh – sure. Sure, Missouri." Big, understanding eyes and that little shoulder-hunch and Dean shoved away from the wall he was leaning on, heading for the door.

"I'm gonna go start the car," he muttered. Angels, psychics, lying little brothers – just another day in the life of Dean Winchester, Hunter.

 

"This place is frickin' huge," Dean said, and Sam rustled his tour brochure, flipping pages.

"It's over five hundred feet long. And three hundred and one feet high."

"Yeah, frickin' huge." Dean side-stepped a grandmotherly type who was squinting up at a stained glass window, oblivious. "And crowded."

"Millions of people come here every year. Oh!"

"What?" Dean snapped. Sam had stopped, staring upward, and Dean fought the urge to smack him around the back of the head. He followed Sam's gaze to a stained glass window overhead, something tall and arched and swirling with color. It didn't depict the usual – no saints or angels or lambs or anything. It looked.... "That's trippy," Dean said.

"It's the Space Window. The Scientists and Technicians Window, actually. Up in the middle, see that clear bubble?" Sam was pointing like a little kid and Dean rolled his eyes. "It's an actual moon rock. In the window."

"Huh." Dean stared up at the little smear of clear light in the middle of the rich blue and red and black, distracted for a moment.

"Did you know," Sam continued, his voice taking on that 'and we're walking!' tour-guide cadence it got since Sam was a know-it-all thirteen year old. "One of the grotesques is a bust of Darth Vader?"

"Gargoyle," Dean said, and Sam tipped his head at him, smiling a little.

"A gargoyle has a pipe in the mouth to let water out, like a drain. A grotesque is just a weird animal or caricature that doesn't necessarily divert water."

Dean stared at him for a beat. " _You're_ a grotesque."

"Didn't see _that_ coming," Sam muttered, diving back into the brochure. Then the EMF in Dean's pocket whined shrilly, making him jump.

"Looks like we got something...." Dean slipped the EMF out, putting the earplug into his ear, hoping it would pass for some kind of music player. Most of the people milling around were too preoccupied to care, though, and he walked slowly in a widening spiral, flinching a little when the EMF went crazy under a stained glass window that seemed to be depicting.....

"Is that a burning bush?" Dean asked, and Sam shot him a look of astonished offense, his gaze flicking rapidly between Dean and a curvy red-head who seemed absorbed in a guide book. Jesus. "You know, like Moses?"

"It's strongest here," Sam said, ignoring him, and Dean snapped the meter off.

"Yeah, it is. Maybe...whoever made it has unfinished business?"

"Like crushing homeless people? That doesn't seem to jibe with the whole 'make windows for church' thing." Dean looked around, noticing for the first time that there was a pattern to the stone floor. An obvious one, of squares and diamonds, but there was something else.... "I need to be higher."

"What?"

Dean started walking, gaze skimming the soaring vaults above their head. "We need to be up higher – is there like a balcony or something?"

"There's a walkway over the apse, we can –"

"Perfect, let's go."

 

Apparently, tours that took you up into the lofty heights of the cathedral were infrequent, and the wooden walkways were furred very faintly with a touch of dust. Up here, the air seemed thicker – darker. Like being underwater, all blues and greens and blood-reds from the windows. Dean didn't like it – it felt claustrophobic, somehow, even though the wide wings of the cathedral stretched away left and right, and the arched bones of the roof were like the sky, serene and out of reach.

"Here," Sam said, and he stepped carefully off the walkway and onto the very stones of the cathedral, edging up to a hundred-something foot drop and leaning slowly over. Dean joined him, one hand on cool limestone, one hovering and finally settling on Sam's flannel-clad shoulder. They both stared down.

The floor of the cathedral was crowded with people, candelabras, pews and benches, and Dean let his gaze run up and back the length, and then cross-wise, along the transept. And he saw it. Part of the overall design, but also outside of it. A shape – a glyph. He could see it in corners of tiles and the angles of pews – in how the light fell across the floor, and he heard a little indrawn gasp from Sam as he saw it, too.

"There it is. What the hell? Do you recognize it?" Dean asked, and Sam jostled against him as he felt in his pockets for his phone.

"I dunno. Maybe? It seems kind of...." Sam took a few pictures and then stared downward, his bangs curving out a little, tendrils of hair cupping his cheekbones and jaw. "It's not just in the floor. Whoever made it depended on the light, too. There's no way it's there all the time."

"What do you mean?"

Sam turned, a little impatient, and wavered for a moment, and Dean fisted his hand in Sam's shirt-front and drew him back, into the shadows of the walkway. "Stop pawing at me. I mean – when the sun's in a different position, in spring or summer, it won't be there. It showing up _now_ is deliberate. Timed to the season – maybe to the moon? Or...."

Sam bit his lip, going into 'deep-think' mode, and Dean nodded slowly. He took one last look down the dizzying height, searching for something – anything. And, once again, saw it. A strange little patch of mortar on the wall under the burning bush window. It was, ever so faintly, off in color. Barely discernable, but somehow, being further away made it more obvious. A vague sort of _face_ , shadowy eyes and mouth, and Dean shivered.

He was pretty sure it was staring right at him.

 

 

 

The Budget Motor Inn was about as cheap and crummy as you could find in Washington, and Missouri shook her head in impatient pity. What these boys put up with.... She waved the taxi off with a flick of her wrist and walked down the cracked sidewalk to room seven. Dirty snow was piled unevenly along both sides, and the sidewalk itself was wet, slippery in patches and breaking into gravel. The air was sharp with cold, prickling in her nose and making her throat hurt. She skidded just a little in the furry boots that her niece Shenandoah had bought her and came to a stop at the door.

It was gratifying to hear the muted scramble that went on when she knocked once, sharply, and announced herself. A few moments later, Dean opened the door, shirt half on and his hair wet, his mouth set in an unhappy line.

"Missouri? What –"

"You boys don't seem to know how to answer your phones," she said, and shouldered past Dean, wrinkling her nose. The place smelled like take out chicken, damp wool, gun oil and _boys_ , with an underlying tang of some industrial cleaner. Both beds were littered with clothes and gear, and the little round table Sam was hunched over was scattered with books, print outs, cans of cola and candy wrappers, and cups of vending machine coffee.

Sam lifted a half-zipped duffel of paraphernalia off of a second chair and made a 'have a seat' gesture, and Missouri nodded in thank you and plumped herself down. Dean finished yanking his shirt on, covering the dark, hand-shaped scar on his shoulder – angel-mark, burning with its own peculiar light – and Missouri hugged herself a little inside her puffy coat.

"We can do this without a babysitter, you know," Dean muttered, shrugging on a flannel shirt and folding up the cuff, glaring at her.

"I'm sure you can. But I need to know what you found today – what you saw. I need to know what's causing this."

"We were going to call you –" Sam said, soothing little cadence to his voice, and Missouri narrowed her eyes at him.

"Once you'd fixed it, maybe. On your way out of the city. That's not good enough."

Sam looked over at Dean, eyebrows raised, and Dean snatched a glass down from the lone cabinet in the corner, one hip against the square of counter top, sink and two-burner stove that formed a bare-bones kitchenette. He slopped three fingers of whiskey into the glass and bolted it, throat working smoothly. Too smoothly. He barely seemed to notice what he was taking in.

"Look, Missouri – no offense, but you're not a hunter. This is no place for you."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Dean Winchester. I may not be a hunter, but I'm not helpless." Missouri turned away from Dean and reached out, shifting a few of the papers that littered the table top. "Now, Sam – tell me what all this is."

Sam gave Dean one more look and shrugged – turned his laptop around and shuffled a few windows until a view of the cathedral floor was topmost. "We found a glyph. It's hard to see at first, but if you look just right, it'll jump out at you." With the chewed cap of a pen, Sam traced lines just above the screen's surface and Missouri leaned in closer – leaned back when she saw it.

"Is it...that's not set into the floor, is it?"

"No. Well, some of it. Some of it's part of the overall design. Some of it's light, and shadow...I found some pictures from last summer – " Sam shuffled the windows again, and another view – slightly different, another angle – appeared. "And see – it's not complete. Whoever made this was using the season – the light. We think it's tied to a particular position of the moon. That's why it stopped, before – that's why it doesn't happen all the time."

Missouri unzipped her coat and pushed it open a little – watched out of the corner of her eye as Dean downed another shot and then sat with ill-disguised bad humor on the end of a bed. His elbows were propped on his knees, his hands dangling down between. His knuckles looked sore – a little red, a little cracked. "So – what _is_ happening? What does the glyph mean?"

"From what I can tell, it's a summoning glyph. Whoever did this was trying to summon an elemental."

"Air," Missouri said, and Sam nodded.

"Whoever made this isn't around any more. And when everything lines up right, an air elemental comes through from...somewhere. But it's only here for a few days, and I guess it's...pissed off. Or something."

"Or something," Dean said.

"But why does it stop? Why doesn't it become part of the world here?"

"It can't. I think. Where it's from...isn't here. I think it's hard for it to maintain itself here, because of the glyph not being right. Maybe it, I dunno, hurts it to be here or something."

"Or maybe it's just a monster like every other monster, and all it wants to do is fuck shit up," Dean said, and Missouri gave him her best 'watch your language' glare. He glared back. "We're talking _old_ stuff, Missouri. Powerful stuff. A few hoodoo bags and a – a séance aren't going to fix this."

"I've never done a séance in my life, Dean Winchester. Table-tapping and nonsense – that's strictly for amateurs."

"And telling people lies is for professionals?" Dean snapped, and Missouri felt her back go ram-rod straight, eyes narrowing.

"Seems to me you need to be looking to your _own_ house before you throw any stones in mine, boy." Dean huffed, obviously furious but just as obviously not willing to say anything else, and Sam finally cleared his throat, fingers rustling nervously through the litter on the table.

"Uh, yeah, anyway....I think I've got an idea how to fix this. It's all about the glyph, right? So we just need to alter it. We need to make it so it won't work anymore. Now obviously –" he went on, as Dean rolled his eyes, "we can't chip part of the floor up or anything. But we can add a shadow. A couple of shadows. And it'll change the meaning. Here."

Sam unearthed a drawing from the table and flattened it out, and Missouri leaned in close. It was the glyph, lightly sketched, with three darker lines added. Two lines that joined two separate sections, with a third line extending the point of an intersection and bending it at right angles, making a blunt point into a hooking scorpion's tail. It made the glyph into something else, subtly, but definitely.

"So what does _this_ sign mean?"

"This is...null. It means nothing. Pretty much what it's going to do is seal whatever crack or...opening the elemental is getting through. Permanently."

Missouri nodded slowly, studying the design – thinking about how the original glyph had been made. Then she looked over at Dean, who was glaring at the worn, nubby carpet as if it had mortally offended him, and at Sam, who was twitching at papers and chewing a fingernail. The tension between them was palpable.

"So, tell me...do you boys have a plan?"

Sam jerked and looked up her – over at Dean – and smiled a sickly little smile. "Oooh, yeah. A plan. We've got that."

 

Having Missouri in the passenger seat of the car was making Dean twitchy, and he kept shooting looks in the rear view, catching Sam's eyes and then looking back to the road. Sam seemed perfectly happy wedged in the back with a duffle and a sheaf of papers, squinting down, mouth frowning around the tube of a flashlight.

Missouri sat silent and stared straight ahead, only occasionally making a clutch for the dashboard, and Dean stomped on the gas and the brake a little more sharply than necessary. He knows he's being a dick. He doesn't really care.

He's just _pissed_ , at the both of them. At Missouri for putting herself into the line of fire and being way too fucking stubborn for her own good, and at Sam for his incredibly stupid 'plan' that would probably get them all killed. More like 'certainly'. Dean had even tried to get Castiel to come help, but of course the angel wasn't listening. Not when it was important.

Though, secretly, despite everything...Dean's not surprised. That any entreaty – anything remotely resembling a _prayer_ from his lips – would actually be heard is laughable. Heaven may think that Dean Winchester is The Chosen One, but he knows...they're wrong. Just so fucking wrong.

He take a corner a little too fast and the tires slip and catch and slip, and for a moment it's like flying. Dean grins a little, wolfish flash of his teeth as he steers _'into the skid, Dean, always into the skid'_ , and gets her lined up true again.

The gasp from Missouri and startled, quickly muffled yelp from Sam is gratifying, if petty.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, but Missouri's glare could melt steel. He reached out and snapped on the radio, ignoring the _looks_ he got from both of them.

 

The cathedral at night was – bright. Very bright. "Very, very, very fucking bright, Sam. How in the fuck –?"

"Watch your tongue, boy," Missouri snarled, and Dean resisted the urge to stick it out at her.

"I didn't realize it would be so...um...."

"Bright? It's like fuck – frickin' Time's Square!" Dean stared in astonished irritation at the building. Security lights blazed along the streets around it, and spots and floods traced all the arches and buttresses and carvings, leaving far too few pockets of deep shadow. There was even a big, decorated Christmas tree right in front, with people milling around, snapping pictures and posing for pictures and basically acting like annoying, tourist cannon fodder. The sky was thick with clouds, but there was a high wind up there, blowing them briskly along, and when the moon came out – as it would, as evidenced by the pale, glowing blur in the tarnished pewter of the clouds – the glyph would be alive.

"It's a _church_ , it's supposed to be dark at night, everybody's supposed to just pray and go home!"

"It's a national monument, Dean. And it's, you know – almost Christmas. They have night time services and, you know...tree watching or...whatever. This is what people _do_."

"People are idiots," Dean mumbled. The slush of the parking lot was starting to soak into his left boot.

"I think we should go in," Missouri said suddenly. Her voice had taken on a sort of dreamy quality, and Dean shot her a searching look.

"What would be the point?"

"I...don't know for sure, but I can feel.... There's something there. Not the elemental. Something else. I think...it could help us."

"Help us _how_?" Dean asked, and Missouri tucked her scarf in a little more firmly and put her hand on Dean's arm, simultaneously using him for balance and dragging him along.

"We'll know once we're inside," she said, and Dean huffed and went, Sam trailing behind like the world's biggest kite tail.

 

It wasn't as crowded inside as it could have been, which made Dean relax a tiny bit. But then he tensed right up again as Missouri made a beeline for the 'burning bush' window and the shadowy face Dean had half-convinced himself he hadn't really seen. She stood there, humming to herself, looking first up at the window, then down.

Right into the strange spot on the wall, where Dean was sure the mortar between the smooth, pale stones was a shade darker. Just a shade. After a moment, hesitantly, Missouri reached out, laying her bare hand on the spot. She stood there, eyes shut, and then all three of them shuddered, gasping, as the air for a few feet around them suddenly chilled, becoming as ice-sharp as the air outside.

"Oh. Oh, my....oh, you poor thing...." Missouri swayed ever so slightly and Dean and Sam both made a grab for her. Impatiently, she shook them off. "I'm fine, I'm fine." Her breath puffed white, and Dean put his hand into his pocket, feeling the salt rounds – feeling the weight of his favorite sawed-off in the bag over his shoulder. "There is... There was a woman. Her name was Lia and her husband...her husband was a stone mason here. Oh, he was a prideful man...."

Missouri shook her head, her gaze elsewhere, her hand slowly, slowly stroking over the wall. Dean looked at Sam over her head.

 _'What the fuck?'_ he mouthed. Sam grimaced – shrugged – shook his head. "Helpful, Sam," Dean whispered, and Missouri tilted her head and stared up at him for a moment, mouth pursed. "Sorry, you go right ahead, commune with the wall while we –"

"She's trying to help us, Dean. Her husband wanted her buried here, but they said no. So he had her cremated, and he put her ashes into the mortar, and the mortar...." Missouri turned back to the wall, and give it a little pat. "The mortar into the wall. Right here. She's been here for a very long time. She was here thirty years ago, and she tried to stop it, but she can't. She doesn't have enough power. But she wants to."

Missouri took a couple steps back and stared up at the window, her gaze tracing the curving, fire-colored panes. "This was her favorite window. He put her here deliberately. But the elemental...it makes the air scream. It makes it _hurt_. It defiles holy ground, and when it returns from its killing, it stains the stones with blood...."

Missouri's voice had dropped to a low whisper, and Dean felt a little shiver go over him. She seemed to shake herself then, and she looked around, a little dazed. "She wants to pass over, but she feels she must guard the cathedral. She's the one who sends it out – keeps it away when it kills, so that it must find its victims on unconsecrated ground."

"Wow," Sam said. He looked up at the window, too. "Okay, so – the ghost of a stone mason's wife is successfully driving an elemental away?"

"It's very hard – it drains her – it hurts her. But she won't let it hurt the people here – the church itself. She says...she can help us."

"Help us how?" Dean asked. He wasn't sure he totally believed Missouri – though anything as mundane as 'burying' your dead wife's remains in a church wall shouldn't surprise him, these days.

"She says she knows we need privacy, so – she's going to make sure we get it." Missouri looked a little confused, glancing around, and Dean.....

"I have a very bad feeling about this," Sam mumbled, and Dean squashed the urge to cackle. Then, with a shower of sparks and a theatrical – and slightly terrifying – show of arcing electricity, the lights went out.

 

"This is _helping_?" Dean said, and Missouri smacked his shoulder.

"She did the best she could. Got the place cleared out, didn't she?"

"Sure, but – shit, Sammy! Watch it!"

"I got it, I got it," Sam said, catching his balance on the narrow walkway and finally coming to a stop in front of a low, wide door. "Maintenance hatch. They gotta go out, replace bulbs, clean stuff, you know – I can get to where I need to be from here. You just need to do the spell I gave you – distract the elemental so it stays here."

"I know, I know," Dean shifted restlessly, a faint, pale figure in the dim city light that reached through the stained glass. In the utter blackness of the cathedral, Missouri was sure she saw – something – flickering and moving out of the corner of her eye. Maybe it was Lia, or maybe....

"Missouri? You with me?" Dean said, and Missouri took a hard, deep breath and nodded.

"I'm fine, I'm here. Lia's going to do what she can, boys. Just – hurry."

"Hurry carefully," Dean said, and Sam nodded, hunched in front of the door, lock picks clicking quietly. A moment later the tumblers ticked over, loud in the silence, and Sam was pushing through, into colder air tinged with a faint thread of wood smoke and age. Into a sort of crawlspace and then out, onto the icy, exposed walks and ledges of the outside of the cathedral. Dean shoved his bag after him and Sam took it – looked at him for a long moment and then was gone, pushing the door nearly to behind him.

Missouri shivered and turned away – startled back into Dean as Lia appeared without warning, shining pale-blue-white in the murk. She stuttered, not quite here nor there, her dark hair coiled over her head, her dark dress glittering faintly with decorative beading. Her best dress – wedding dress – funeral dress.

"Lord have mercy on us, we who are going to work these difficult tasks tonight. Lord watch over us," Missouri whispered, and Lia smiled faintly and flickered _out_ , like a candle guttering.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road," Dean said. He guided Missouri back the way they'd come with little flashes of his mini-mag light, illuminating the way back and down again, to the crossing directly under the transept – in the center of the cathedral. The center of the glyph. When Lia had blown all the lights, and security had evacuated everyone, they'd hidden in a tiny closet in the crypt level, crammed tight and breathing shallow, waiting until they could creep back out. Missouri had wanted to make a crack about her age, and men, and tight fits, but really – she'd been terrified.

Now she was going to stand by and watch as Dean did some kind of spell that would, presumably, hold the elemental in the glyph until Sam could get the new lines added. By sticking thin rods into moldable epoxy, and sticking the epoxy to the edges of windows – rods that had been carefully inscribed with a little 'don't notice me' spell. Leaning out and away into the river of icy air swirling around the building. Hanging himself over hundreds of feet of empty air, attached by a thin line and sheer luck.

She could feel Dean's terror and anger – his impotent fury and his nearly painful need to be where Sam was. To be doing the job _himself_ , if not helping. Protecting his brother. It was an ache and an aching hunger, both at the same time, and Missouri shook her head and firmly shut him out. They had work to do.

"Are you ready, boy?" she asked, and Dean crouched down, unfolding a cloth of herbs and chalk, the stub of a candle – a tiny silver knife.

"I'm ready," he said. And then – like he knew it would, but fuck, it could have _waited_...the moon cleared the clouds outside, and every window was suddenly lit by a pale, silver glow, throwing the floor and walls of the cathedral into a panorama of light and shadow. Bringing the glyph to eerie, immediate life.

 

 _This isn't working, this isn't working, this isn't working_ "I don't think this is working!" Dean shouted. Shouted above the rushing, roaring, _screaming_ wind that was corkscrewing around the center of the glyph. That was, increasingly, plucking at candelabras and hymnals and flags, expanding outward and getting stronger, it seemed, with every moment it was contained. _Thwarted_.

Dean shot a nervous, useless look upward. Sam – up there, somewhere – out there somewhere. Clinging and slipping and maybe _falling_ \- stretching too long and too far and Jesus _fuck_....

"Dean! Dean!" Missouri was shaking him, fist knotted in his jacket sleeve, and Dean looked down at her, impatient. "Lia says Sam's in trouble!"

"What?" Dean yelled, and Missouri half-turned him, shoving him hard. Shoving him right _through_ the specter of Lia-the-ghost, making his breath freeze in his throat and his heart seem to stop, for just a second. And then thump back to painful, galloping life as Missouri's words sunk in. Sam. In trouble.

"Will you be okay?" Dean yelled, and Missouri snatched the spell-paper from him – started the chant back up, nodding vigorously. Dean patted her arm, grateful, and then turned and ran. Lia flickered ahead of him like a dying flame, illuminating just enough of the floor and stairs to keep him from killing himself. The stones underfoot seemed to be shaking, and Dean paused for one agonizing moment of indecision when he heard Missouri yell. But he had to get to Sam – get this done.

He ran again, skidding around corners and slipping on polished stone – took the stairs two at a time and all but kicked the maintenance door down, hurling himself through it, a rising wail at his back, following him. But he was out, then, into air like a wall of silver needles, cold so intense it hurt to breathe and wind like a hammer. _Fuck, it's up here, it's got loose...._

Ahead, Dean could just make out Sam's long form, hitching itself slowly up an arched wing of carved stone that was bone-white in the moonlight. His boots were slipping and catching, his hands pawing clumsily, and Dean surged forward with a shout. Clawed his hands into Sam's jacket and yanked, pulling Sam down and into him just as his hands slipped and he started to topple.

"Sam! Jesus Christ –"

"I g-got the f-fu-first one. My hands are cu-cold," Sam said, teeth clicking together, and Dean cupped Sam's frigid fingers in his own for a moment, puffing warm breath over them.

"Stick 'em under your armpits. I think it got out."

Sam shot him a disgusted look. "Ya think?"

"Where's the stuff?"

"B-bag," Sam said. There were little crystals of ice in his bangs, and his eyes were tearing, the liquid freezing into spangles in his lashes. The wind was moaning around the arches and pinnacles of stone – whistling through the open mouths of the gargoyles – and Dean watched in horrified fascination as a stone mouth _moved_. Or seemed to. Opened wide and poured out a scream loud enough to make them both flinch.

Dean yanked the bag off Sam's shoulder and slung it over his own – took a running leap at the _buttress, flying buttress_ that Sam had been trying to climb and was on it, knees locked, rubber heels digging in, his hands scrabbling at the ice-slick stone. Inching himself upward while the wind buffeted him and the scream just went on – and on.

His fingers were freezing – feeling less like fingers and more like sticks of wood, and his grip slipped once – twice. The bag swung loose, taking him further off-balance and then he felt himself losing it altogether, utterly at the mercy of gravity. He clawed uselessly at the rough stone, feeling his skin abrade and his nails tear. Falling – Jesus, he was falling –

" _Dean_!"

And then he wasn't. He was picked up and flung into Sam – held fast, pinned to the wall, and Lia was there. She looked pissed off, breaking up into blazing static moment by moment and then reforming again, more and more solid with every beat.

Sam was squirming around, half under Dean and squished into the stone behind him. "Knock it off!"

"Get the fucking – bag out of my kidney!"

" _Give it to me_ ," Lia said, her voice like water over stone – like a weeping sigh – and Dean flinched back. " _Give it to me_."

"What the hell?"

"Maybe she can help! I thought I could reach it –" Sam was tugging at the strap of the bag and Dean finally untangled himself from it – let Sam hand it over. Lia was solid now – solid but still _not_ , somehow managing to take the bag and still look like the faded after-image of an old-time movie still. The wind was roaring around them now – picking up ice and snow and whirling it higher – faster – and Dean thought that this was how it did it. This was how it killed.

He imagined that wind – solid as iron and cold as the depths of space – coming down onto him and Sam. Crushing them against the stones of the cathedral – soaking the pale limestone with their blood, and forever defiling this place – the very air – with their deaths.

"Can you do it?" he asked, and Lia smiled at him. Flicker-flash-gone, somewhere in the whirling snow and ice, doing what needed to be done, if they were lucky.

If they were ever that fucking lucky.

"Do you think Missouri's okay?" Sam asked, and Dean remembered that shout, that the elemental had gotten _out_ , and that Missouri had been alone down there with it.

"Fuck no," Dean said, and they both ran.

 

For the second time in her life, Missouri woke up to the sight of an angel. She really never thought she'd see such a sight until she died, but it's not particularly comforting. Unless.... "I'm not dead this time, am I?" Missouri asked, and Castiel gave her a puzzled look from his position by the fireplace.

"Do you wish to be?"

"No, no, heavens, no." Missouri sat up, wincing. Her back was twanging and her head was throbbing and she felt rather uncomfortable in her...midsection. She was also, she realized, on her Nana's couch, once again snuggled under Nana's afghan. And Shenandoah was sitting tight-lipped in the new easy chair across from her, still in her work clothes, a mug clutched in both hands.

"Doe, baby – are you alright?"

"I think that's what I'm supposed to be asking you. Auntie Mo, I can't believe you. I cannot _believe_ you'd go running off with two _hunters_ , after everything you've told me-" Shenandoah stopped and pinched her mouth shut – not a particularly good look on her otherwise pretty face.

"Hush, you. You don't be telling me what I can and can't do, and clucking at me like some broody hen. I had to be there, and that's the end of it."

"Better listen to her, Doe," Dean said, sidling into the room like a tom cat, all oil-smooth and that gleam in his eyes, cute little grin on his face, and Missouri just shook her head as Doe perked up, crossing her legs and letting her mouth smile a little, instead of twisting it all up.

"Your Auntie, here, is one tough old bi- biddy."

"You keep a civil tongue in that head of yours, Dean," Missouri said. But she fought a little grin, herself, because despite the less than complimentary ' _biddy_ ', there was genuine respect in the boy's voice. "Doe, I'm perfectly fine. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow." Missouri didn't _quite_ tell a lie – she didn't feel any worse than if she'd raked the yard, cleaned out the garage, and repacked the entire attic. In the same day. With a cold. But she wasn't _hurt_ , so....

"Well, don't you worry about that, Auntie. Dean's promised to tell me all the scandalous details." Doe rose gracefully from the chair and crossed to where Dean was still lurking by the china closet. "He asked if I would help him get back to his car, and then I thought...." Doe turned, her whole body doing that swaying, leaning thing, physically flirting with Dean, her mouth curved in a little smile. "I thought we could get a drink."

"I think...that's an excellent idea," Dean said, and Doe all but giggled. Missouri rolled her eyes.

"Go on then. Shoo. I want a hot drink, Sam –" Missouri raised her voice, and Sam, who was trying unsuccessfully to sneak upstairs, stopped with a guilty hunch of his shoulders. "Sam, would you go and make me a cup of tea?"

"Yeah, sure, Missouri." Sam scuttled away into the kitchen and Missouri watched with a frown as Dean put on his jacket and Doe gathered up her own coat and keys, murmuring to each other. As they moved toward the door, Missouri couldn't resist one parting shot.

"Dean – you be sure and bring my niece straight home, you hear me? I'll be watching you, boy." She gave him her best 'I am psychic, hear me (psychically) roar' look, but it was a little ruined by Castiel crossing to her, her fuzzy slippers in his hand.

"Sam said you might want these."

"Night, Auntie! Don't stay up too late!" Doe sang out, and then the door shut and Missouri sighed, snatching her slippers from the angel.

"What happened, Castiel? I remember the spell...breaking. It wouldn't hold it in anymore. It came out of the glyph...it was...." Missouri shuddered, remembering the cold – utter, killing cold that had stolen her breath and her sight and her consciousness, all at once.

"It was very angry. But the spirit – the trapped soul – she stepped in. When I arrived, she was making the final shadow." Castiel looked up as Sam came into the room carrying a mug. He put it down on the side table and then settled gingerly on the couch, perched on the very edge as if he would fly away at a moment's notice. Missouri wondered how such a big man could look so...fragile.

"Why did you arrive at all? I thought you said you had more important things to do." Missouri wondered if she should be taking the tone with an angel of the Lord, but it was hard to remember that that's what he was. With his 'angel-ness', as Dean had said, tamped down inside him, he looked more like an absent-minded professor, peering out at the world through a fog of academia.

"I did. I was. But then I felt...something. A crying out...."

"A disturbance in the Force," Sam said, and Missouri smacked his knee.

"Don't be flip."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And don't 'yes, ma'am' me."

"Yes, ma – uh...Yes. Fine."

"I felt Dean and Sam in danger – nearly dying. They were too cold – Dean was...falling. And I felt you, Missouri Moseley. You were nearly dead. So I came."

"Did it work? Did she – is the glyph changed?'

"Yeah, it did, actually." Sam heard the surprise in his own voice and laughed ruefully, running a hand back through his snow-damp, wind-tangled hair. "I mean...it wouldn't have without Lia. I couldn't actually reach the windows like I thought I could. The walkways and ledges didn't go far enough and they were icy...all that snow...and the wind...." Sam shook himself – looked up at Castiel and sighed.

"Anyway – she did it. She put the rods in place and the glyph changed and Castiel shoved it back. And then...Lia...."

"She wished to be at peace. She was tired." Castiel settled carefully in the easy chair, folding his coat over his knees. "I sent her home."

"To heaven, you mean?" Missouri said, and Castiel nodded. "Well then, good. That's good. She deserved her rest. She was unhappy, there. And it's...it won't come back again, will it? There won't be anymore deaths...."

Castiel shook his head once, solemnly. "No more deaths, Missouri Moseley. It is finished."

And then he was gone, soft _whick_ of wings she could almost see, and Sam sighed again. "I'm kinda tired, Missouri. I thought I'd just go upstairs and um...take a little nap? Until Dean gets back –"

"Sam Winchester," Missouri snapped, and Sam's attempt to escape deflated and he sagged back onto the couch. "I don't know what to say to you, Sam. I'm just...what you're doing...." Missouri shuddered all over, cold at the thought. At the brief, hectic jumble of images she'd gotten from their fleeting touch.

Blood, bodies, a demon – power that no man or woman should ever toy with. A deep, restless anger, hurt – need. She shook it off and stared at Sam, who was chewing his lip and trying not to look back.

"I'm trying to stop Lucifer, Missouri. I'm trying to – stop the apocalypse. I...just.... I can't just give up. I have to do...whatever it takes –"

"Even if it damns you, boy? Even if it means your soul?"

Sam finally looked up at her, and his gaze was full of terror – anger – steel. "No matter what. It's what Dean would do. What he can't do. I'm doing it for him." Then he got up and was gone, up the stairs into darkness and Missouri settled back on the couch, the tea the only warm spot in her.

The gargoyles would never scream again. The furious air was stilled, the blood - washed away. But Missouri did not feel better. Not better at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes and links to things of interest
> 
> Okay - notes! Firstly - America has very few 'abandoned churches' with gargoyles, so I opted for something both easier and harder: the [The Washington National Cathedral](http://www.archdaily.com/37265/washington-national-cathedral-visitor-gateway-smithgroup/). Or, [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washington_National_Cathedral), for the Wiki page. It's an incredible building, with an amazing amount of lore and history. So much that I instantly fell in love. Plus - a [Darth Vadar grotesque](http://i.imgur.com/WJG8G3K.jpg)!!
> 
> I knew Dean had to be there, if only for that.
> 
> [This article](https://www.washingtonian.com/2007/09/01/mysteries-of-the-washington-national-cathedral/) gave the idea for Lia, the stone mason's wife. There is an actual legend that a woman's ashes *were* entombed in the cathedral, so of *course* she would haunt it!
> 
> This is the ['Burning Bush'](https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3381/4613385422_daba2048f7_b.jpg) window. I'm not really sure *what* it is - that was all i could think of. If anyone out there actually knows - please share!
> 
> And i really rather loved what [this](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Air_%28classical_element%29) says about Air as an element.
> 
> Now, even though all the many, many, *many* details I discovered didn't get into the fic for obvious reasons, I did have a lot of fun exploring the neighborhoods surrounding DC proper, and settling on the neighborhood of [Shaw](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shaw,_Washington,_D.C.) for Missouri's Nana's house. I even did that thing with Google where you can get a 'street view', and chose the house. Apologies if anyone here actually *knows* that house.... :)
> 
> I also was delighted to discover - after talking to m'dear Roxy - that Missouri's niece Shenandoah works at the [Smithsonian Air and Space Museum](http://www.nasm.si.edu/). That's *such* a cool place. *I* want to work there.
> 
> Now, I know i fudged a bit with the cathedral security - it's doubtful anyone could actually hide in there and not be found, even in a blackout. And i also fudged a bit on the 'climbing around outside' thing. I'm sure they do have access to some of the roof/outside, but i couldn't find actual *links*, and so hopefully nobody is pointing and laughing at my idiocy. I've seen similar accesses in other, European cathedrals and churches, so....  
> *artistic license, artistic license*


End file.
